Week 26 - Sunday II

Week 26

Glastonbury – Sunday Part II

“Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol, C-c-c-c-c-cocaine!”

I stuttered as I ordered our final round of the festival, in homage to the band who were finishing off the festival for us. I’ve no doubt Beyoncé’s show was fantastic, and I’m sure it was an ‘I was there’ moment for many, but I’ve personally never been one for ‘I was there’ moments, mainly because I’m usually not there. I may have mentioned that there are always amazing alternatives to the main attractions, and while there’s no bigger Gruff fan than me (did I mention I’m 7 ft 3?), I’ve never seen Queens of the Stoneage live. 

With the added benefit of being in sight of the fireworks that were launching over at the Pyramid, the Queens were brilliant, playing a set that featured all their fan favourites, mainly because they’d let their fans vote online beforehand for what songs we wanted to hear. I’d voted for ‘Single Ladies’ but it wasn’t to be. I consoled myself offerings such as ‘Feel Good Hit of the Summer’ a song which lists all the drugs K-May was selling to kids throughout the week and ‘The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret’, which I’d promised I wouldn’t mention but couldn’t resist.

‘Make it Wit Chu’, ‘Little Sister’ were highlights that I can’t be bothered making bad jokes about, while their finish would have made Beyoncé blush, with ‘3’s and 7’s’ ‘First it Giveth’, and ‘Go With the Flow’ in a row before the climactic ‘No One Knows’ turned out to be not so climactic when they finished on ‘Song For The Dead’ instead. That was that, Glastonbury was over until 2013 and with no one in the mood to push for a big night, we returned to the tents and regrouped, recalling our festival highlights over a final few quiet beers.

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By two o’clock most of our group were in bed, ready to rise early and leave no trace on the farm. Whilst Barlow and I shared our final cigars of the festival, he gave me a map of Glastonbury, with the Stone Circle highlighted. He was drowsy, drunk and delirious, and told me how he’d spent the previous night at the Stone Circle watching the sunrise, an experience he highly recommended.

“Go there!” he said in a thick Scottish accent, “it’s paradise!” he added.

Before I had a chance to ask him when he’d picked up his Scottish accent, he collapsed in a heap. I checked for his pulse, but couldn’t feel anything. The fact he was snoring was inconclusive, so I assumed he was dead and abandoned him.

I was intrigued, so I resisted the urge to squeeze in between Sandro and Candy in our tent and set off in a desperate bid to prolong the festival. It was around two thirty, so sunrise was some way off, but I was armed with a bag full of cans which would surely keep me awake. 

Once I reached the Glastonbury sign, I turned to survey the site, which was lit by thousands of lights. It looked phenomenal, and I realised what an extraordinary photo opportunity this was, so I cursed the fact that my Nokia 0010 could barely send texts, let alone take photos. Time was on my side though, so I decided to return to the tents and try to pinch Sal’s camera.

The caveat in my carefully crafted plan was that it involved crawling inside Sal and T-Reez’s tent, and rooting through their belongings to find the camera. Now, I’m normally completely at ease with such behaviour, but it can be hazardous when it’s gone three o’clock in the morning, and so it proved when T-Reez, woken by a strange yet handsome man rummaging in her tent, sprayed me with Mace. Worse still, I didn’t find the camera.

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It was already brightening up when I set out again, this time heading straight to the Stone Circe, where I met some charming Mancunians. They were still drinking cider at an impressive rate, one sip per minute, and had made the trip for the same reason as me. Stupidity. The four of them had been to see Beyoncé and three of them said she was fantastic, while one with a mop top was less impressed.

“Beyoncé at Glastonbury? I’m not havin’ it, it’s wrong,” he said, in spite of having made the effort to go and watch her for two hours.

It was gone four o’clock and the sky was brightening by the minute, but as well as light there was a sense of anticipation in the air. I’d heard stories of cheering and clapping, even spontaneous stripping in celebration of when the Sun appeared on the horizon, and people were chatting excitedly. And then, it happened. 

I fell asleep.

When I woke, the Mancunians were gone, as were the contents of my beer can, which lay horizontally across my crotch. The Sun however, had appeared, albeit shrouded in cloud. 

I was wet, alone and disappointed with my eyelids.  If people did indeed clap, cheer, or even strip when the Sun rose, they didn’t do it loud enough to wake me up. The miserable bastards.

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Concluded.

June

4-10 - The Subways & Gomez - ✓
11-17 - Marcia Griffiths - ✓
18-24 - Glastonbury - ✓
25-1 - Glastonbury - ✓

Week 26 - Sunday I

Week 26

Glastonbury – Sunday Part I

“Kelly, can you handle this? Michelle, can you handle this? Beyoncé, can I handle you?”

So sang Barlow, who was positively smitten with the sassy singer. He had competition from Cousin Bish, who places Beyoncé at the very top of his ‘To-do list’, a highly coveted position. Sandro, however, only had eyes for ‘The Ginger Elvis’ himself, Josh Homme.

After a four hour kip during which I dreamed of Candy performing Beyoncé‘s ‘Crazy in Love’ (unfortunately, inspired by a real topless rendition some years ago), I woozily rose for what was the final day of the festival. After days of moaning about the rain, Saturday had been warm, and on Sunday the Sun was finally completely unobstructed, and free to scorch our skin, so it seemed only right to moan about it. Everyone was tired, most were nursing five-day hangovers, some were sunburnt, and Candy looked on the verge of death.

He rose from our sweaty tent wearily, and was out for the count on a camping chair within minutes. “Which are my wellies?” he asked when he stirred, before pulling on the ones I’d pointed to. Bizarrely, once he’d wellied up, he ducked back into the tent, eased himself down until he was lying on his belly and fell back asleep, with his legs spread in upsetting fashion. It was a harrowing image that hinted that he wouldn't be moving for a while.

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Although it was comfortably my earliest morning of the decade, I didn’t see any music until after one o’clock, when a delayed Foster The People played at the John Peel Tent. The Americans released their first album earlier this year to pretty good reviews and sales, so naturally I’d never heard of them, but they were worth the watch. 

Cousin Bish, Flapjack, P. Mushy, Salazar and Sandro all arrived in time for a band I had heard of, The Joy Formidable, who were making a record third appearance in Gigaweek, an outstanding achievement. During a further delay, a desperate, exhausted and slightly rotund figure appeared before us from nowhere, dripping with sweat and looking distressed. Bleary eyed and gasping for water, he didn’t notice us until he was less than a yard away. 

“Candy!” I exclaimed in shock. 

Overcome with relief, he was silent and threw his arms around an understandably thrilled Flapjack, in a warm embrace. 

The Joy Formidable were typically entertaining, playing a set similar to the one they played at The Manics a month ago, with the fine addition of ‘A Heavy Abacus’. Once they’d finished we popped for a bite to eat, which was almost literally the case for Candy, who binned the majority of his pasta dish, and declared himself dead.

So bad he felt, that he said he was considering getting a train home as soon as possible, which I dismissed as poppycock. Admittedly he looked terrible, but he’s a terrible looking guy so I didn’t think anything of it. I prescribed a siesta, and assured him that he’d be fine in no time, while Sandro offered me 1/5 odds on Candy being one of the five or six bodies found at the end of the festival.

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Flapjack and I then went to meet The Wiggler at the West Dance tent, where Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip were doing their thing. Their thing was some kind of electronic-hip-hop-pop-a-pot-a-mus, and happened to be one of my highlights of the weekend. Most of the packed tent seemed to think so too, delighted by a mixture of smart and witty lyrics, Pip’s engaging stage presence, and the odd one-liner from Le Sac, who also contributed the beats.

‘The Beat That My Heart Skipped’, was a fine start, ‘Get Better’ was impressive, and the show did with the incomparable ‘Thou Shalt Always Kill’. There was even room for a pinch of Radiohead (surprisingly not from In Rainbows or King of Limbs) in ‘Letter from God to Man’, which features a sample of ‘Planet Telex’. Metronomy were next in the tent but we forsook them and headed to the BBC Introducing Stage, following a tip off from eagle eyed Cousin Bish.

Gruff Rhys, who was headlining the Park Stage in the evening, was playing an acoustic set as a Special Guest that was also to be broadcast live on 6music. He only played three songs which was a shame, especially for Sandro, Sal and P. Mushy who missed ‘If We Were Words, (We Would Rhyme)’ and didn’t understand a word of the Welsh lyric(s) to the next song ‘Gyrru Gyrru Gyrru’. He finished his short set with the sensational ‘Sensations in The Dark’, before disappearing with a quick ‘Thankyouverymuch!’

P. Mushy then had a sudden flash of recognition, remembering that K-may was pregnant he bolted, while the rest of us headed to see The Vaccines back at the John Peel tent.  The Vaccines injected some pace into proceedings, with their short, sharp and poppy guitar tunes, and once they’d finished we went back to the Other Stage to see Eels, who were electric where we received word from T-Reez regarding the fortunes of Kimbo and Little P, but Candy’s fate was unknown.

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Kimbo and Little P had made the dramatic decision to leave early, swapping Beyoncé in favour of a drive home to sleep in an actual bed. It was a shock to the system, they were good people, and so young. We mourned their loss, Sandro wept, and when Sal and I went to retrieve some much needed alcohol we bumped into them, where they confirmed my worst fears; Candy wasn’t going with them. Instead we were told he had gone to the Pyramid to prepare for Beyoncé, which presumably meant he was lathering up.

Returning to the Other Stage where Kaiser Chiefs had begun, I was reminded of Sal’s intense dislike for them. A chance encounter with front-man Ricky Wilson at one of their gigs several years ago had ended in tears. Ricky’s tears. Sandro and Sal tell wildly different versions of the famous tale, but the gist of it is that Sal didn’t know who Ricky was, Ricky didn’t know who Sal was, one of them was unimpressed by this fact and was consequently rude to the other one, so the other one attacked the rude one with a rolling pin.

The Kaisers reminded a decent crowd of their collective value though, with songs like ‘Ruby’, ‘Modern Way’, Oh My God’ and there was a mini riot during ‘I Predict A Riot’ sparked by a chap who really doesn’t understand the value of subtlety. Moi. It was a great warm up to Queens of the Stone Age, who were the alternative headliners at the Other. K-May, P. Mushy, Sandro and I did a Zane Lowe and opted for Queens of the Stone Age over Beyoncé, not because we’re fans of course, we’re just sexist and racist, especially K-May.

The more liberal T-Reez and Sal made their way to the Pyramid, while The Wiggler and Flapjack chose the Welsh option in the form of Gruff Rhys. Cousin Bish and Barlow, also headed to the Pyramid, both confident of attracting Beyoncé’s attentions, but with Candy present, what hope did they have?

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To be concluded. . .

Week 26 - Saturday II

Week 26

Glastonbury – Saturday Part II

“One, dau, drei, quarto, cinq, VI, buzz!”

Like U2 and Paul, Coldplay and Chris Martin, are loved and loathed in equal measure. While Paul is viewed as a sanctimonious megalomaniac, which is apparently a bad thing, Chris is seen as a bit of a dull sap, which is apparently worse. Personally, I couldn’t care less. He was a perfectly charming front-man throughout their performance, thanking the crowd and seeming genuinely thrilled and honoured to be headlining for the third time.

The theme tune from Back to the Future played as the band took to the stage, and they opened with a new song, while fireworks shot up dramatically by the side of the stage. Yellow lights heralded ‘Yellow’ next, which would only have been better if any of the stars Chris was singing about were actually visible, but ‘In My Place’ which followed has never sounded better. Before playing another new song Doc Martin asked the crowd to forgive them for playing a few new ones “One day they’ll be your favourites, tonight you might think, what the fuck?”

Although they did play a few more new songs, they were lightly peppered amongst hugely popular older ones, which were all deeply embedded in the crowd’s collective mind, whether you liked it or not. There was a mass sing-along to ‘The Scientist’ before my personal favourite ‘Shiver’ which Chris revealed was the first song they ever played at Glastonbury. ‘Violet Hill’, ‘God Put a Smile Upon Your Face’ and ‘Everything’s Not Lost’ were all well received, and there was an endearing cock up during a slow new song, that a cynical man might suggest was staged, because it was staged.

‘Politik’ was another outstanding moment, but didn’t compare with the reaction to ‘Viva La Vida’ which prompted singing from the crowd that evoked memories of ‘Tender’ from Blur two years ago. ‘Life is For Living’ would have been a pretty underwhelming finish, but there was always going to be an encore, and it couldn’t have been much more impressive, after all, nothing else compares to ‘Clocks’, except for what followed. Chris Martin channelled Louis Armstrong, singing ‘What a Wonderful World’ with a slightly less gravelly voice before a momentous performance of ‘Fix You’, which he said was for his sister, bless him. How could you dislike the lovely boy?

They finished with their new single ‘Every Teardrop is a Waterfall’, which was enhanced by an incredible light show, involving the Pyramid turning just about every colour of the rainbow. Paul would have been hugely jealous.

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Barlow fortuitously bumped into the other Newton Faulkner fan at the festival, and disappeared, while The Wiggler and Candy had disappeared to the loo together. Meanwhile, Flapjack had opted for The Chemical Brothers over Coldplay who he despises with vigour, so we regrouped back at the tent. Cousin Bish was shattered after covering a huge amount of ground without hat or hair to protect him from the Sun, so he retired to bed.

 The rest of us played our old favourite drinking game Buzz*, with an intriguing twist.

*What is Buzz you ask? He’s Kevin’s brother in Home Alone of course.

Any language was acceptable, which gave Sandro and I the perfect opportunity for some creative thinking. However, the bilingual T-Reez was clearly a Buzz expert and impossible to catch out. Unfortunately for Little P and Candy, the opposite can be said for them, and catching them out was like taking candy from a baby (which Candy frequently does, hence his nickname).

Although, K-May was desperate to join us on a trip to the Park, P. Mushy was keen to put the health of their baby first, so he knocked her out and left her in their tent, while the rest of us took Buzz on the road. Little P shared her endless supply of glow sticks, and we had a ball at the Silent Disco, where we danced majestically (well, Candy didn’t) and sang along to classic anthems by legends like Chesney Hawks.

The Silent Disco didn’t close until after 4am, which of course, was far too early to go to bed. The sky was brightening when we returned home, and T-Reez shared some of the finer elements of the German language with us, which an intelligent and handsome chap was considerate enough to then repeat loudly and incessantly, much to the delight of the semi-conscious K-May, whose unborn child then told him in no uncertain terms, to “Shut up, you piece of scheiße!”.

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To be concluded. . .

Week 26 - Saturday I

Week 26

Glastonbury – Saturday Part I

““Wiggle me this, wiggle me that, who thinks Candy’s a complete t-””

Whether The Wiggler actually said these words is irrelevant. What is relevant is that only after using several packets of wet wipes, did I feel safe enough to return to the tent. Friday’s rain had dampened our clothes, but not our spirits. They were safely protected in plastic bottles, preserved at exactly the right level of dampness. It would take a fool, nay, an imbecile, to say that the rain hadn’t affected our enjoyment of the festival so far, but the rain hadn’t affected our enjoyment of the festival so far.

Happily the Sun came out to play on Saturday, which allowed me to leave my muddy poncho behind and head to the Pyramid Stage, where I saw the second half of a set from Stornoway, who’d begun at the unholy hour of 11am. It was a pleasant opening to the day, ideal for a hangover and a spot of ‘Zorbing’ saw several huge white orbs released into the audience.

I joined Candy and Cousin Bish on a beer run back to the car park, where we retrieved fruit, vegetables and orange squash, while Kimbo and Little P grabbed as many crates of lager and cider as they could manage. On our return we made for the John Peel to enjoy Yuck, who were disgusting and had a bit of a grungey feel to them, before Candy and I made a short journey to the Dance Village with The Wiggler, Flapjack and Sandro, to see Brother in the West Dance tent. 

Apparently they’d revealed a change in their name to Viva Brother at their performance on the Other Stage the day before, following a legal challenge from their brothers. They’ve been ruffling a few feathers recently with their apparent cockiness, and by generally harking back to Brit-Pop, although I’d managed to avoid them altogether. “They’re good, but he’s a bell-end,” Candy summed up after their set, referring to their singer who wasn’t quite as endearing as, say, Guy Garvey, but the tunes were there, so I expect these brothers to be even bigger than Sandro soon enough.

We then returned to the John Peel tent to see Anna Calvi, another newbie who’s had plenty of attention this year and her guitar playing was incredibly impressive. For a girl. Or so thought sexist Salazar anyway, and she wasn’t even there. We didn’t stay for her whole set, Cousin Bish headed for The Walkmen at the Park Stage while the rest of us regrouped to watch The Kills at the Other Stage, which was entertaining, although of course Sal spent most of the set slagging off Alison Mosshart.

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Cousin Bish reappeared in time for Jimmy Eat World, which was a treat. They ended with the delicious combo of ‘The Middle’ and ‘Sweetness’, but Jimmy Eat’s achievements were surpassed by Friendly Fires. Cousin Bish and I had seen them with Sandro at Glastonbury in 2009 when their energy and their front man’s dance moves in particular had impressed us. Our intention on this occasion was to watch the beginning of their set and then head to the Pyramid, but they were so much fun that we stuck around ‘til the end. 

‘Jump in the Pool’, ‘Lovesick’, ‘Skeleton Boy’ were all crowd pleasers and the band were joined by some lovely ladies in Hawaiian skirts to match the singer’s Hawaiian shirt came out to dance for new single ‘Hawaiian Air’, which ardent feminist Cousin Bish found degrading, before the ridiculously good ‘Paris’.

Pulp were special guests at the Park Stage but Cousin Bish and I were still scarred from our experience with Radiohead so we stuck with our original plan to see Elbow instead. This time there were no regrets, as they almost upstaged the headliners. The crowd were in jubilant mood and were eating out of Guy Garvey’s muddy palm, which was probably unhygienic. Guy revealed that it was Elbow’s twentieth birthday, before admitting that nobody actually remembered which day in June they formed twenty years ago, which led to the obligatory ‘Happy Birthday to you!’ 

They’d played a few songs by the time we arrived but we saw the majority, including the ground-shaking ‘Grounds For Divorce’ and their now tried and tested and perfectly plotted finale of ‘Open Arms’ into ‘One Day Like This’. I then found K-May who was also among the crowd, swilling beers and swearing at youngsters from her camping chair, as is her wont.

Although Elbow are far more than just a warm-up act, they were the ideal band to prepare the crowd for the headliners. Sandro, who’d seen Coldplay the last time they’d headlined in 2005 had tipped them to be the stars of the festival, and to make a few hipsters stand up and take note. I had my pen and paper ready.

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To be continued. . .

Week 25 - Friday II

Glastonbury - Friday - Part II

“Those aren’t Pillows!”

Candy’s late arrival had been forced by work commitments (those shower curtain rings won’t sell themselves) but he arrived at precisely the most awkward time imaginable; moments before the headliners began. I’d intended to meet him but by the time Cousin Bish and I arrived at the Pyramid Stage there was little room for manoeuvre. I gave up and decided that meeting was impossible, just as we reached an ideal position in front of the sound stage.

After ignoring several phone calls and laughing at numerous desperate sounding answerphone messages from the Candyman, I instructed him to head toward the Pyramid Stage (“It’s the one shaped like a pyramid”) and he did so. Manfully carrying his rucksack and holdall through the rain, Candy made one of the most timely and remarkable Glastonbury entrances of all time just before the first drumbeat. He even befriended a family by the side of the stage, in a way only he can. By force. 

U2’s entrance wasn’t quite as impressive. I’d confidently predicted that a certain legendary Irish front-man would prove once and for all that he is indeed God, and would fly onto the stage in a holy beam of light. Much to my amazement it wasn’t to be, and instead Paul walked on stage like a mere mortal, as did the greatest of great guitar heroes, Dave. The other two probably did as well, but who cares?

U2 are amongst the most divisive acts in the world. Few bands have more fans, few bands are more hated, and few bands have sillier nicknames (as if anyone’s really called Adam Clayton). They were easily one of the biggest talking points beforehand, having not played any festival in over two decades and having never played Glastonbury, despite existing since the dawn of time and being arguably the biggest band in the world. 

Yet, it seemed, a lot of people would be watching in spite of themselves. As P. Mushy said, “They’ve got some tunes, and you know they’ll put on a show, but I just can’t stand Paul.” There was also the alleged tax evasion to throw into the mix, and a protest that led to a giant balloon being erected among the crowd bearing the slogan ‘U pay tax 2’, but we don’t pay attention to such issues in Gigaweek, especially with Sandro’s history of tax evasion.

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While U2 are renowned for the spectacular, they weren’t on home turf here. They had a couple of extra screens either side of the stage, but there was no claw, and there were no multi-million pound additions to the Pyramid. They are rich enough and old enough (sorry Mum) to have retired to their eco-mansions across the Atlantic long ago, and the audience here were music fans, not just U2 fans, so it was something of a gamble for them to play Glastonbury. 

Did the gamble pay off? Cousin Bish and I thought so, whereas Sandro was delighted that he disappeared in time to miss ‘Get on Your Boots’. The rain didn’t help, minimising movement among the audience and for Paul on the slippery stage, but they opened well, with a dramatic drumbeat leading into ‘Even Better Than The Real Thing’ which was accompanied by a video by Damien Hirst. 

The classics were there, with ‘One’ a particular highlight early on. ‘Pride (In The Name Of Love)’ had the majority of the crowd singing along as they finished the  main part of their set, as did ‘With or Without You’ when they returned for their encore.

Paul described their show as being like a pilgrimage, and sung ‘Jerusalem’ before ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ which was nearly as impressive as when Dave joined Muse on stage last year to cover it. That song also included the ‘bah da, bah da, bah, da da da!’ refrain from ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ which was slightly odd but always welcome.

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There were plenty of other Glasto specific flourishes that Paul seemed particularly proud of, including tributes to the other two main headliners, with a nod to Beyonce via a blast of ‘Independent Women’ during ‘Mysterious Ways’ (which also involved Paul making some weird grunting sounds) and an a cappella version of Coldplay’s ‘Yellow’ during their encore. 

Primal Scream’s ‘Movin’ On Up’ also popped up during ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ which would have gone down well with those who’d agonised over which of the two to see, and even The Clash weren’t safe from Paul’s plundering, ‘Garageland’ lyrics popping up during ‘Vertigo’ which also began with a bit of The Beatles in the form of ‘She loves You’. 

Paul later unfurled both Irish and British flags on stage, single handedly uniting the two divided countries. What a hero. After ‘Yellow’ they played a couple more songs which underwhelmed all but the hardcore U2 fans present, with ‘Moment of Surrender’ and then ending on their first ever single ‘Out Of Control’ rather than my suggestion, ‘City of Blinding Lights’ which would have been perfect for Glastonbury.

Paul then allowed Dave to make one important announcement, before they left the stage to more rapturous applause. “Hello Glastonbury!” Dave said through his Britney style microphone. “If there’s a fella called P. Mushy present, tell him I want my hat back!”

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I was shattered, and after taking an age to get back to the tent, carrying Candy and his gear, we settled down with Flappy and P. Mushy for a quiet catch up and a spot of barbershop quintet practice. Just as we were set to hit the hay, Barlow arrived covered in mud, and he wasn’t alone. For reasons known only to him, Barlow had gone on his own to see Newton Faulkner earlier on, and he’d managed to save a girl called Al from a muddy grave. 

They’d bonded over a shared love of ginger dreadlocks and stuck together for the rest of the evening, arriving just after we’d finished a perfect rendition of ‘Mr. Sandman’. Al was suitably impressed by the hundreds of Tim Vine jokes that followed from Cousin Bish and P. Mushy, my masterful Liam Neeson impression, Flapjack's solo performance of Neneh Cherry's ‘Don't Be a Stranger’ and Candy’s generosity. 

It turned out his holdall had been full of essentials: bottled water, Penguins and Monster Munch. I was aghast that he was willing to share his ‘Flaming Hot’ bags, but it was okay, he assured me, “It’s a multi-pack.”

After Candy had changed into his tennis clobber, we joined a sleeping Sandro in the tent. The prospect of sleeping between Sandro and Candy wasn’t one I’d been looking forward to, and my worst fears were realised when I woke after ten minutes with Candy’s arm around me.

“Candy. . . Why did you kiss my ear?” I said in exhausted confusion,

“Why are you holding my hand?” he replied awkwardly,

I shuffled uncomfortably.

“Where's your other hand?” I asked in alarm,

“Between two pillows,” he replied defensively,

I clenched.

“Those aren't pillows!” I squealed, and leapt up and out of the tent in horror, hobbling towards the safety of the long drops.

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To be continued. . .


June

4-10 - The Subways & Gomez - ✓
11-17 - Marcia Griffiths - ✓
18-24 - Glastonbury - ✓
25-1 - Glastonbury

Week 25 - Friday I

Week 25

Glastonbury - Friday - Part I

“If this is a rom-com, you’re gonna die too!”

Friday is when Glastonbury really begins. All the stages open, and the big acts show their faces. There were of course, no bigger faces than the ones that were headlining the Pyramid Stage that night. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Headliners with big faces are just a small part of a big event, and every face, big and small, plays its part in making Glastonbury what it is.

Metronomy, one of a number of bands playing Glastonbury who have already featured in Gigaweek, were the first that Sandro and I saw again. The Pyramid in the rain at midday is a slightly different prospect to Clwb Ifor Bach at night, and I’d say Metronomy are more suited to the latter, which they’d no doubt prove at their second show on Sunday in the Dance Village, where their chest-lights could be used to greater effect. 

Next were Two Door Cinema Club, who we’d seen on The Other Stage last year, and having since listened to their very good debut album, I expected them to be even better this year. Salazar, Flapjack and I wanted to see Miles Kane at the John Peel Tent so sadly we missed the last few songs from Two Door, but making difficult decisions is a big part of Glastonbury. There are usually about four or five places you’d like to be at any one time, which is why it’s such a great festival, but it’s no place for the indecisive. Or is it?

As we were leaving we heard ginger singer Alex Trimble asking the crowd to participate in a bit of piggybacking and glancing over at Flapjack who was eager to climb aboard, I knew that leaving was the right decision.

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After being impressed by Mr Kane at Camden Crawl a couple of months ago, Sal and I were excited to see him again. Flapjack however, must be sick of the sight of him. The resemblance between the two was startling, and even as I looked from the stage to the face on my left I wondered why I’d never seen them in the same room together.

Citizen Flapjack played a great set once again. Sandro, The Wiggler, Cousin Bish, and P. Mushy all turned up once Two Door had finished and got to see a finale that featured ‘Come Closer’, which saw us obey by gathering around Flapjack and pawing at his face.

The boys stuck around for Cage The Elephant, but the girls, Sal and I, headed to The Other Stage to see The Wombats, much to the disapproval of Sandro, who described them as “Toilet”. The Vaccines were on stage before them, and we heard the last thirty seconds of their set, three songs worth, before parting with a whopping £6.50 for a burger. 

That price is average among the diverse food stalls of Glastonbury, which is why our tent was packed with breakfast bars, beans, rice, Pot Noodles and caviar. With the rain still pouring, and having wisely brought only T-Shirts and shorts with me, I was understandably delighted when a familiar voice called out the words I was hoping to hear.  “I love you! You have a very nice face!” no, not that voice, the one that said “Ponchos! Get your ponchos! Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head!” 

It was none other than the man who’d recited a poem for our pleasure the previous day at the Stone Circle. He was selling ponchos like hotcakes for three quid a pop or two for a fiver, but as soon as I declared my interest a rival entrepreneur, Stuart Baggs ‘The Brand’, offered me one for two quid instead, much to the irritation of the poet. I didn’t approve of such salesmanship, so I scorned the stooge and traded with our old friend who, I was impressed to discover, recognised me. “Where’s your mate with the big nose?” he said, “I just realised the bugger gave me a shoddy Home Bargains lighter!”

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T-Reez was also keen to watch The Wombats, who she said were the third biggest act in Germany behind Rammstein and Die Scheiße Frites. In the UK the Liverpudlians are considered to be about as cool and as cutting edge as U2, but although some of their lyrics are unintentionally amusing they’ve got some enjoyable tunes, the undoubted highlight being ‘Let’s Dance to Joy Division’, which closed the set.

There aren’t many respectable songs about rom-coms, and Sal’s version of the lyrics to ‘Kill The Director’ were of course superior to those sang passionately by lead singer Matthew Murphy, but even so we couldn’t resist singing “This is no Bridget Jones!” for the rest of their performance. Gigaweek, of course, is no rom-com, and it most certainly isn’t Bridget Jones, although she and Sandro wear similar underwear. 

The man with the big briefs then joined us to see Bright Eyes, whose maestro Conor Oberst appeared on stage in a cape, which was probably more sensible that the white suit Murphy had worn. Although I’m unfamiliar with most of their music, Conor and the rest of the band were an impressive live presence, keeping me and the rest of the soaking masses entertained and attentive.

Admittedly we did mix their music with a contest to see who could kick highest, using the muddy marks on our ponchos to measure, but who wouldn’t? We knew the risks involved in such a dangerous sport of course, and when a powerfully welly from Sal damaged all of my internal organs, there were few complaints. I was too winded to talk, and none of the others cared.   

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Word had spread throughout the day that tonight’s ‘Special Guests’ at the Park Stage would be none other than Radiohead. Radiohead. I could scarcely believe it. What would Kesha say? The two-time headliners created a lot of excitement, and were a band well worth making the long haul in the pouring rain to the Park Stage, and we joined thousands of others in doing so. 

Playing the slot before them were Big Audio Dynamite, who include The Clash’s Bridget Jones, Mick, who had headlined the Pyramid Stage last year with Gorillaz. We only caught their last couple of songs, but Cousin Bish had been there for the duration and was in the centre of the crowd out-dancing Bez of Happy Mondays fame, who he was standing next to.

Even at that point, the crowd was huge, stretching right up the hill to the Glastonbury sign and beyond. Thom Yorke and Jonny Greenwood had played as special guests last year, and according to many of those who were lucky enough to witness them, it was one of the highlights of the year. There were no surprises when Thom took to the mic and announced his band’s name. The reception that greeted them this time was just incredible, but surprisingly the show itself was a bit of a let down. 

The entire set comprised of songs from their two most recent albums, save for the encore. Neither are bad albums by any stretch, but neither are Ok Computer or The Bends. The dwindling audience suggested that plenty of others felt similarly, and as the rain continued to fall, we were left feeling low and wet (or high and dry?). 

In other circumstances we’d have stayed ‘til the end, and I later regretted leaving early, especially when P. Mushy and Flapjack revealed that they’d rewarded the diehards with an encore of ‘Street Spirit (Fade Out)’, which would definitely have cheered me up. There were other things on my mind though. I’d long before chosen to resist Primal Scream for the promise of the spectacular on the Pyramid, but I had a much bigger problem to consider: Candy.

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To be continued. . .

Week 25 - Glastonbury - Thursday

Week 25

Glastonbury - Thursday

“We’re junkies, but we’re nice junkies”

I woke on Thursday with a sore head. I knew I’d been drinking the night before, but that didn’t explain the ring-pull embedded in my forehead. Thursday is the perfect day to explore the site and take in the many delights it has to offer during the daylight hours, including the charming portaloos. There’s a ridiculous amount to do at Glastonbury, aside from using the toilet, but there’s so little time to do it in, especially when you enjoy sleeping as much as I do.

After P. Mushy shared out the mandatory pirate tattoos, Sandro courageously led a guided tour through the mud, for the benefit of T-Reez and Kimbo, who were gracing Glasto for the first time. Thankfully, it was pretty dry but the previous day’s rain made welly-walking in the thick mud an arduous task. We struggled on and covered an admirable amount of muddy ground, sadly with no comical falls to speak of, in spite of my persistent attempts to push people over.

After a trip to the iconic Glastonbury sign, which is similar to the Hollywood sign but spelt differently, we took a well-earned break near the equally iconic Stone Circle, which is similar to Stone Henge but spelt differently, where hundreds of others also lay at rest. There was a faint cloud of smoke rising from nearby and a peculiar smell in the air that could mean only one thing: P. Mushy was nearby. He and K-May joined us following a prenatal massage, which P. Mushy described as the best he’d ever received.

There were all sorts of other crazy cats around us, from dodgy dealers selling laughing gas to kids (K-May), to others selling various bits and bobs, including giant lighters. P. Mushy’s own giant purple lighter was now broken, but he traded it for a new one, from an unsuspecting dealer who looked a bit like Iggy Pop, but more rubbery, who’d mistaken it for one of his own dubious stock. As a bonus, he then recited a lovely poem for us, before disappearing in a cloud of smoke. 

“You don’t get that kind of service at Home Bargains” P. Mushy admitted, “now, that’s a bargain!”

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The Green Police were also hard at work in the vicinity. A fella who’d been sitting in front of us chose precisely the wrong moment to aim his old boy at a hedge, and the green fuzz caught him yellow handed. Prodding him as he walked back to his friends, they educated him and those in earshot on the perils of his urine seeping into the ground and spreading to nearby streams and rivers, where local fish would be understandably appalled.

They also flogged some eco-friendly ‘Cigarette Butt Bins’, but bottled trying to persuade anyone to quit smoking, before setting off once more in hot pursuit of the next man to drop his pants. You may be thinking that Glastonbury is just about mud, giant lighters, drinking, playing ‘Butt the Beer’, and saving the world by collecting deadly cigarette butts, but there’s also a bit of music now and again.

We finally saw our first band of the festival at the Avalon Café, although while they were introducing themselves, P. Mushy and I had slipped away to collect cigarette butts, so I can’t tell you what they were called, or the names of any of their songs, but since when was that important?

Nobody knew the name of the artist who was opening the inappropriately named Wow! Stage either, as it was a ‘Special Guest’. Speculation was rife though, it could have been anyone. Pulp perhaps? Some daft bugger suggested Daft Punk, but I had my fingers crossed for Rastamouse. The Wow! tent was crammed full of an excited mass of bodies, trembling in anticipation, one or two dressed in rodent costumes and Rasta hats, and then, it happened. Kesha, who spells her name with a dollar sign, appeared on stage

“Dog$hit!” was the concise verdict of a chap near Cousin Bish, who was one of many who turned and started marching away as soon as she took to the stage. Cousin Bish and I however, were in heaven. Kesha, Ms. Dynamite and Sandi Thom on one night? Like true punk rockers we put flowers in our hair, and rejoiced at how lovely everything was. In reality I was dejected, so I threw off my Rasta hat and stormed off in a rage. I was intelligent enough to keep my rodent costume.

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At one of Glastonbury’s many popular night spots, known as The Common, Sandro and other commoners were watching some mild-mannered motorcyclists perform the Wall of Death. Meanwhile, I joined Cousin Bish, Barlow, Kimbo and Little P, and using the clearly labelled signposts and our site-maps to great effect, we managed to avoid the tedious events at The Common altogether, instead trudging through the mud in a circular motion in exciting fashion for an hour or so.

In place of rapid bikes, we had folk music in the form of Rory Mcleod and the Familiar Strangers at the Avalon Café to entertain us. You can make your own mind up as to which you’d find more entertaining, but apparently Rory used to be a circus clown and fire eater, and none of the circus clowns or fire eaters who were riding the Wall of Death can say that. Once he and the strangers finished, we finally stumbled across the route to The Common, which luckily, was now shut.

We spent the rest of the night in the Park area, where the queue for the always popular Silent Disco was enormous. Whilst drinking outside the packed Stonebridge Bar, we were joined by a lovely Irish couple, who amused us with stories of their favourite gigs, Glastonbury experiences, and weird naked Englishmen. Like many others at the festival, this was their chance to get away from their rotten kids and let their hair down, even though they were both bald.

“Basically, we’re junkies, but we’re nice junkies,” the Irishman summed up. Like countless others, even though he wasn’t a big fan of U2, he predicted that they would put on a hell of a show and said he’d be there to see it. At about half one, we decided to head homeward and bade farewell to our Irish pals.

“I think I’ll join ya. Where yous headed?” the Irishman said unexpectedly.

“Err, back to the tent,” I replied proudly,

“Losers!” he said, pointing and laughing, “No fuckin’ way! Ya losers! Yous borin’ bastards!” he continued, which was a tad unfair I felt, as it was well past bedtime, and I needed to brush my teeth. 

“Well, have a good one!” he said cheerily, and we headed home with pride to join Sandro and co. for a nightcap. 

Barlow cracked open a couple of cigars, and we celebrated the fact that after three nights, Glastonbury Festival Of Contemporary Performing Arts And Rastamouse was about to actually begin.

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To be continued. . .

Week 25 - Glastonbury - Intro

Week 25 & Week 26 – Wednesday 22^nd June – Sunday 26^th June – Glastonbury Festival – Worthy Farm, Pilton - £200

A Brief(ish) Introduction

 “Home Bargains. Bang! And it’s a bargain!”

We’ve finally reached that landmark stage in the Gigaweek calendar. The half-way mark. It’s been an emotional 6 months, full of the four L’s: Lager, love, laughs, and lager. And strawberry cider. The centrepiece of our challenge, Glastonbury, is an especially special way to end the first half of the year. As anyone with intimate knowledge of the rules of Gigaweek knows (i.e. no-one), as Glastonbury spreads itself out nicely over several days it covers two weeks’ worth of gigs, with Week 25 covered by the Thursday and Friday of the festival, while the festivities of the Saturday and Sunday cover Week 26.

Considering this year’s ticket alone cost us each two hundred quid, it’s comfortably our most expensive ‘gig’ of the year, which creates a high level of expectation. Having been to Glastonbury twice before, but no other music festival (excluding Sŵn and Camden Crawl), I’m perfectly qualified to declare that it is comfortably the finest festival in the world, easily eclipsing the many hundred festivals that I’ve never been to. Of course, I’ve read about at least three of those others, and asked people I trust about at least two more, so I know my stuff.

It doesn’t take a festival veteran to know that Glastonbury is huge. Of course size is relative, which is good because my relatives are enormous, but even by festival standards it’s a big ’un. Around a hundred and fifty thousand people pile in for a few days to turn a thousand or so acre farm into a temporary city, and yet remarkably, there are bigger festivals. But are there any that are more famous? The British Pie Festival perhaps. While I’m all for pointless arguments, it seems especially pointless to spend too much time arguing about whether or not Glastonbury is the best festival in the world. Let it be sufficient to simply say that Glastonbury is wonderful. It is also the best festival in the world.

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Sandro and I were grateful for the company of some familiar faces, including the ugly mush of P. Mushy, the heavily pregnant K-May, who was still commendably enthusiastic in spite of her terrible affliction, and the dynamic duo of Little P and Kimbo Slice. For the second year running we travelled to the festival site on the Tuesday evening, when the car parks were opened, before the opening of the main site on the Wednesday morning. 

Sandro and I are both forbidden from driving (apparently you need a license) so it was up to Salazar Senna to take to the wheel, and she left the others trailing in our wake. After some interesting navigation, our convoy was joined en route at a carefully chosen meeting spot, by the world’s favourite cousin, Cousin Bish, and the amazing Barlow, who’d been let out by Ken and Deirdre to make his first appearance in the world of Gigaweek. 

Arriving at night, the site itself was a sight to behold, as hundreds of lights guided us in.  Cousin Bish and Barlow shared a toast of a ceremonial Scotch egg and we settled down for a few quiet car park cans with thousands of others present, while the stewards wandered among us, keen to share their stories of the five or six dead bodies found each year in discarded tents at the end of the festival. Meanwhile, P. Mushy showed off his giant purple lighter (it’s not what you’re thinking), one of his many purchases from his favourite store, Home Bargains. “You get top brands, at bottom prices. It’s truly full of bargains: for the home! In short, it’s a bargain!”

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If you’ve never slept in the front seat of a car, I highly recommend it. It’s a little bit like sleeping in a bed, except your body is less horizontal, and your eyes are more open. After a few hours of blissful sleeping, P. Mushy came knocking at five thirty to raise us, and ask us what the situation was. Queues had already formed, full of weary yet eager people with an appetite for queuing, turned on by sexy rumours that the gates would be opening earlier than scheduled. Kinky.

At around eight o’clock, the unthinkable, became the thinkable, and it started to rain. Why hadn’t the festival organisers raised a roof over the site yet like those clever people at Wimbledon? Why can’t the British government control the weather like those nice people in The Truman Show? And why was Sandro lying naked in the mud? All these questions flashed through my mind as I trudged over a helpless, naked, mud covered man.

The showers continued until we reached our camping destination, Park Home Ground, at around ten o’clock, and raced to erect a gazebo. I remembered my trusty motto, Go To Sleep, Someone Else’ll Do It, and left the hard work to the likes of Barlow, who connects poles at startling speed, and K-May, who, being pregnant, really needs the exercise. Thankfully it stopped raining while all this hard graft was being done, but the damage had been done and even I couldn’t sleep on the muddy, wet ground. Once our tent was up though, I was out for the count.

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After a pleasant six hour sleep, I was disappointed to find that while I’d been sleeping it had been raining consistently. I was even more disappointed to see that Flapjack had turned up. Fortunately he was accompanied by his friend The Wiggler, another who was gracing Gigaweek with his presence for the first time. Also arriving a little later was Sal’s German friend T-Reez, who’d made a critical mistake, by wearing lederhosen with her wellies. The final member of our party would later arrive on Friday evening in spectacular fashion, but more on Candy later on.

Those of us present at that point weren’t discouraged by the weather, and we headed to the popular Brothers Bar near the West Holts stage, where we met some Jamie Carragher loving scousers, who seemed to be everywhere, and naturally shared our best Cilla Black and Ringo impressions. More importantly, encouraged by a keen K-May we played a traditional game of ‘Butt the Beer’, an intelligent and highly sophisticated drinking game that involves head-butting a can of beer, lager, cider, or beans if you’re really daring, until the can bursts, at which point you are obliged to drink the remaining contents. Last year Sandro, P. Mushy, Cousin Bish, Barlow and I had played the ‘Doubles’ variant of the game, which involves putting your forehead on the line and having a lot of faith in the smashing ability of the man next to you.

On that occasion, my head had proved a delightful meeting point for the can, and a carefully aimed smash from Barlow, who was of course careful not to injure me in the process (the player’s wellbeing is paramount in ‘Butt the Beer’), saw a Carlsberg explode on impact. It was Little P who suffered most at the hands of Barlow this year as he took no mercy on her skull, and even the pregnant K-May couldn't escape his clutches. I didn’t need to rely on Barlow’s biceps however, and destroyed a can single headedly, celebrating wildly as onlookers rightly applauded, before Sandro helpfully pointed out that, as I hadn’t then downed the remainder of the can, I had therefore lost and achieved nothing. 

Distraught, and having lost my only remaining brain cell, I went to bed.

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To be continued. . .

Week 24

Week 24 – Wednesday 15^th June – Marcia Griffiths – The Globe, Cardiff –  £16

“Reggae music is the heartbeat of the people!”

With just over a week to go before Glastonbury, Sandro and I accepted an invitation from Uncle Benjammin to join him and Billy Joel for a bit of reggae music with the ‘Queen of Reggae’ herself, Marcia Griffiths, at the home of all genres of music, The Globe. An impressive pre-gig pint at The George saw me steadily sip a couple of strawberry ciders until my lips and tongue were transvestite-red, while Sandro and Benjammin had more ladylike drinks, in the form of lager.

Benjammin and Billy’s knowledge of reggae music is far superior to mine, or even jack of all genres, master of nuns, Sandro’s, which is mightily impressive, considering that I’ve seen Cool Runnings at least fourteen times. They briefly educated me about Marcia’s exploits throughout a long and illustrious career. Apparently, she’s a woman.

Marcia has been singing since the sixties, famous for working with Bob Andy, another reggae legend, in the inventively named group Bob & Marcia, who had a hit single that even I’ve heard of in the form of “Young, Gifted & Black” which is how I’m frequently described by those in the know. She was also one of the I-Threes, who were backing vocalists for Bob Marley & The Wailers in the seventies, whoever they are.

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The Globe was thankfully slightly less toasty than on our last visit, although it was still hotter than most Caribbean countries. Cans of Jamaican beer Red Stripe were selling at four for a tenner and were ideal for both the climate and occasion, but not my taste buds, which were still tuned to strawberry. There was a decent midweek crowd of eager reggae fans present, including a few friendly looking Swiss lads oddly dressed in skin-tight suits, but there didn’t seem to be any supporting acts.

After a long while drinking upstairs, Marcia’s band finally took to the stage, and I could see that Sandro, whose long-term dream has been to marry the 'Queen of Reggae' and move to her home in Buckingham Palace, was nervous, so I invited him to kiss my lucky egg. He didn’t.

“How about I beat your butt right now?” he said instead,
“How about I draw a line down the middle of your head so it looks like a butt?” I replied cleverly, even though Sandro is far from bald. The band played a nice gentle instrumental to ease us in, before Griffiths joined them to add her sultry voice. 

“Let’s see you moving Cardiff!” Marcia proclaimed, and Cardiff obliged, with swaying and shuffling widespread and no one present was able or willing to resist the reggae rhythms, particularly Uncle Benjammin who was drawn to the stage. I didn’t know the name of any of Marcia’s own stuff, but it didn’t matter. She may be in her sixties but she showed the energy of a fifty nine year old as she moved across the stage and her boundless enthusiasm was contagious. I did however have a rare moment of recognition for her rendition of ‘You Don’t Love Me (No, No, No)’ which was a treat.

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Like all great dancers I also knew the famous dance that accompanies the song ‘Electric Boogie’  like the back of my hand, but I wasn’t sure what the song actually sounded like, even though it’s one of Marcia’s most famous and successful tunes. With that in mind I decided it would have been unwise to risk mistiming an Electric Slide, but Sandro wouldn’t hear of it. 

“Look in the mirror, and tell me what you see!” he said to me, holding up his personal grooming mirror,

“I see a pale man in a Rastahat” I replied dejectedly.

“Well, let me tell you what I see. I see pride! I see power! I see a bad-ass mother who don't take no crap off of nobody!” he said,

“Really?” I asked,

“No, but you may as well do an Electric Slide anyway, ‘cause you’ve been making a fool of yourself doing the Pigeon all night.”

As well as her band, Marcia was aided by a couple of backing singers including her son, who she introduced to the crowd, before they left the stage for a brief interval. All then returned for what was closer to a second half than an encore. “Reggae music is the heartbeat of the people,” Marcia declared to cheers of approval. “We’ve lost a lot of good people from the reggae world recently,” she said, and paid tribute to some recently deceased stars of reggae music including Gregory Isaacs. She encouraged those present to celebrate their memory, and she certainly did a worthy job of doing so herself.

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We felt the rhythm, felt the rhyme, and got on up, ‘cause it was Bob Marley time, as renditions of two legendary reggae songs in the form of ‘No Woman, No Cry’ and ‘Three Little Birds’ closed out the show splendidly. Sandro even kissed my lucky egg.  I was delighted. We’d seen a master at work, who’d done what she’d been doing best for over four decades. It had been an entertaining and richly rewarding show, that left us all in great spirits, with a sweet feeling that everything was gonna be alright.  

As we were leaving however, I heard a loud cry of “Eins! Zwei! Drei!” and moments later the Swiss lads flew past, knocking me headlong in the process. 

“You dead mon?” Sandro asked me, clearly concerned. 

“No mon,” I replied. “But my lucky egg is,” I said, showing him the stain on my boxer shorts.

“But I’ve still got your lucky egg here,” he replied, showing me said egg, which was still in prime condition.

“Oh boy,” I said, and hastily covered up my stained underwear.

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June

4-10 - The Subways & Gomez - ✓
11-17 - Marcia Griffiths - ✓
18-24 - Glastonbury
25-1 - Glastonbury